“I rescind my invitation,’ The Roach said, his voice quavering.
Belial either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. It turned toward Eloise, hot breath raising the temperature of the basement. Eloise backed away, probably seeking the stairs but inadvertently heading deeper into the basement. The Roach’s night-vision goggles painted a green landscape that looked like the surface of an alien and hostile planet. And, indeed it was, for this world was now ruled by Belial.
“God have mercy,” Eloise blubbered. God had been merciful by darkening the room and taking away the vision of the horned beast before her. But her faith was weak. And that only made Belial stronger.
“Leave her, Belial,” The Roach challenged. “It’s me you want.”
The demon’s claws reached for the woman’s tear-stained face, but then it hesitated and turned its hideous face toward The Roach. The crucifix didn’t deflect the hostility of the stare, nor the wariness in the hooded eyes.
Obey me, you horny-headed bastard.
The Roach listened for God’s instructions. He was a mere emissary, and only through the power of the Lord could he stand a chance here. Otherwise, he would share the fate of the two women whose faith offered no protection in the face of supernal evil.
But Belial’s bellow drowned out any message God might have delivered, and it set upon Eloise like a torrid lover, wrapping her in sinewy arms and squeezing her in the throes of depraved passion.
She issued a final gasp as her lungs emptied in Belial’s embrace. The forked tongue whipped out and licked its cracked, wet lips. Belial’s head dipped and the creature buried its grin against the woman’s gaping mouth.
Eloise struggled with the last of her energy, her digital camcorder bouncing to the dirt. Her eyes bulged and then she went limp in Belial’s grasp. He exhaled and filled her with loathsome unlife. As her fingers twitched and curled, The Roach took a tentative step forward, begging God for courage and wisdom and strength.
“Now you are mine, Belial,” The Roach said. “You have taken what I gave and must do my bidding.”
Belial hesitated, still pumping his foul wind into Eloise. Her eyelids fluttered and she reached one hand to Belial’s neck for support.
The Roach lifted the crucifix higher, expecting the demon to recoil in disgust. “By the master of angels above, I command thee to obey.”
Belial gave a bone-deep shudder and threw its head back, growling in agony and rage. The Roach pressed his advantage now that the demon was caught between its intended host and its current corporeal manifestation. He jabbed the tip of the crucifix into the creature’s back, the silver slicing through the scaly flesh.
Ichor gushed from the wound, appearing black through the night-vision goggles. The roar of rage gained pitch and intensity, almost the keening of a teakettle. Belial thrashed about, sending a clawed fist toward The Roach, but he’d already withdrawn his weapon and stepped away. He reached for the holy water, knowing it would burn like acid on the split skin.
But before he could react, Belial collapsed.
The tip must have reached his heart and poisoned it with the love of Christ.
The Roach stood over the trembling bulk. He had eradicated demons before, and they could only be defeated, never destroyed. Belial would return at another time and place, and The Roach or some other soldier of light would be there in God’s service. He tested the corpse with the tip of his boot, but the corrupt flesh was already decaying to ash and dust.
Eloise moaned and The Roach knelt to her prone form.
“May God bless you,” The Roach said, checking her pulse. With luck, she would remember nothing, and he’d only have Nancy’s corpse to deal with.
Eloise rolled to her knees, graceful for such a robust woman recovering from shock. “Dark....”
“Easy,” The Roach said. “I think you fell down the stairs and bumped your head.”
“Dark is....”
He reached for her, intending to help her to her feet. The blow came suddenly and powerfully, taking his breath and loosening his teeth as bone crunched in his cheek. He lay in the dirt, blood pouring from his nostrils as he squinted through the cock-eyed goggles.
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Eloise said, though her voice was rough and thick as if she were unused to the size of her tongue. The woman knelt and wiped a hand beneath his nose, then licked at the blood on her fingers. He watched her walk toward the stairs, his green field of vision going gray.
CHAPTER 26
“The jumper is awesome,” Duncan said.
Ann didn’t understand him at first. She’d drowsed after the hurried round of lovemaking, intending to recharge her batteries and be at full alert for the after-midnight hunts. She opened her eyes thinking they were in Duncan’s apartment, a cramped walk-up two blocks from campus. The smell of coffee reminded her of Sunday morning, and she smiled at the thought of those languid hours ahead, with no classes, no responsibilities, and nowhere else to be. Duncan clicked the computer keys, the first out of bed as usual, browsing all his favorite Internet haunts.
This is how a woman should awaken. The only thing missing is breakfast in bed.
She’d been dreaming of horseback riding, an activity she’d pursued in her teens before the high maintenance costs forced her family to sell her pony. The metaphorical connection was so obvious that she jarred fully awake and recalled she was at the White Horse Inn.
Duncan, not realizing she’d been asleep, said, “That footage is so good it almost fooled me. Who shot it for you?”
“What footage?”
“The jumper. The guy who skewered himself on the lamp post. I thought you weren’t going to have time to do that one.”
She kicked the blankets away and reached for her blouse. “All I shot was the Jilted Bride.”
“Come on, Ann. I’m not one of those idiots who believes anything you tell them.”
She grabbed for his coffee mug and took a mouthful of cool, bitter brew. “We’ve already used up all the footage. I told you we’d have to go into replay mode.”
“Well, I don’t know how this got on the hard drive, then.”
Duncan leaned away from the screen to reveal grainy, pixelated movement. She squinted and recognized the room. It was 312, the curtains featuring ornate braided piping that was at odds with the furniture. The room appeared to have been outfitted with leftovers, with imitation Queen Anne chairs, hand-hewn tables, a sagging art-deco vase holding flowers, and an impressionist painting that suggested a wooded lake. Though the picture was monochromatic, her memory filled in the autumnal color scheme of the room.
“We didn’t put a projector in 312,” Ann said. “Remember, we ran out of time.”
Duncan consulted his notes, brow furrowed, face stark and haggard in the lamplight. “You sure that’s 312?”
“That ugly painting. I made a remark about a flea-market find.”
“Yeah,” Duncan said, tapping the keys. “Let me run the program again.”
A window popped up on the bottom of the screen, revealing a video-editing program. He scrolled backward with the mouse and hit “Play.” The footage loop began. The first 10 seconds showed the still room, but then a man entered the camera view and threw the curtains wide, nearly knocking them from the rod in his haste. He wore a bow tie and had slicked-down hair, pouches under his tired eyes. He flipped the window latch and lifted the lower pane, shaking with what appeared to be sobs or rage.
“Check the clothes,” Duncan said. “Izod shirt and LL Bean plaid pants. Totally Eighties.”
Ann nodded. Those were the types of details she’d have included if she’d had time to rig another loop of fake footage. The suicide jumper had died in 1981, the dawn of the Reagan Era.
The jumper punched the window screen out with one foot and climbed onto the ledge. He gave one baleful, hopeless look back at the camera, and then he launched himself into the night beyond the window. The curtains swayed and settled back into the place, and again the room was still.